Twisted Tales: Snow White
by Scribbledydee
Summary: You thought the Brothers Grimm told the whole story...no! What about the evil magician, the necromancy, the spectral rider, the pathetic love interests...and what about the psychotic mirror? Being cowritten with friend Jenny. Some major violence, rated T.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Reader,_

_Before you begin and make any unnecessary commitments, the following story is not the fairy tale that many believe to be the true story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Oh no._

_The true story has been twisted and selectively edited over time – so that parents could sleep, assured that their darling children would not wake up screaming after experiencing vivid, terrifying nightmares based on the unfortunate true nature of the tale that the Brothers Grimm first committed to paper._

_So I beg of you, before you begin to read this manuscript of utter woe and misery, it should never find its way into the hands of anybody who is utterly obsessed with the tale that the Brothers Grimm had to convolute to suit their politically correct purposes._

_Thank you for heeding these words,_

_The author_


	2. Chapter 2: Blood for a Child

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Blood for a Child_

_24__th__ December 1771_

The snow fell thick and dense that December. It fell in a gentle blizzard, coating the walls and floors encompassing the stone turreted towers of the castle of Weitwegberg. It fell upon the gutters, the parapets, the crenulations on the ramparts and in any other niche or alcove that it could pack itself into.

From one of the upper windows, a lady sat in the window. Queen Kristina's hands made fast, neat work of the dress that she was sewing. A dress to fit a doll. A dress for the child she had been wanting for all these years.

And yet it still did not come.

She had tried every method known to society. Drugs, medicine, special treatments, regular 'consummation' sessions with her husband – even praying fervently and piously.

And yet it still did not come.

Her desperation and near-madness in seeking a child had made her the subject of so many vicious and malicious rumours around the court of Weitwegberg. She had heard reports of courtiers gossiping about her, spreading false stories about being cursed for being unfaithful to her husband. She felt powerless to stop the circulation about her infertility.

They had called her mad, insane even – at one point her own husband locking her away because of the overriding suspicion dominating the court. But she still resolved to hold her head high, and retain her royal dignity as Queen and lady of the castle.

That would never quench the acidic taste of the hateful gossip.

She stitched the dress tenderly, every movement or motion of the needle empowered by her fervour for a child. Every stitch made and every thread pulled through symbolised the determination coursing through her bloodstream.

Her lips pursed under the mental strain she underwent. Perhaps she was going mad after all. Perhaps every rumour and snippet of gossip that was being pumped aggressively around the court – perhaps they were all the truthful, honest observations of others that her emotional state dismissed as spite.

She gazed forlornly across the room at the small wooden cot she had had the local carver fashion for her child, whenever it decided to come. Nothing elaborate and extravagant like every other trapping in the castle that surrounded her. Just a humble and simple cot, carved by a humble and simple carver.

She placed her needlework on the bedside table, and lay back on the four-poster bed, gazing up at the exquisite fabric of the hangings.

Would she ever have a child? The likelihood at this point would mean she would remain impotent and infertile forever. Her husband had taken up chambers and lodgings at the direct opposite side of the castle.

Her own husband was avoiding her now. She must really have been going mad in her compulsive obsession for a child. It had even driven away the one who had sworn to love her for eternity – till death do us part.

"Are you alright, milady?" a sudden, yet reassuringly soothing voice cut into her deep internal monologue.

Kristina sat up fast, agitated by the sudden intrusion. Her muscles tensed, before relaxing again to see that the unexpected voice matched itself with a welcoming familiar face.

"Nurse, you frightened me so," she sighed, resting a hand on her decelerating heart. "You must learn not to take me by surprise so often."

"Sorry, milady," Freda (for that was her name) giggled. "Just an old habit of mine. Old habits die hard."

"The question is when they are going to die," Kristina groaned, hauling herself up against the wall. "You've been doing that since I was five years old – when we were just playmates."

Freda dropped off the clean linen and laundry, freshly washed and pressed, into the correct places, and let her body re-balance itself. She soon noticed, as her eyes traversed the length and breadth of the room, the pile of needlework Kristina had just given up on.

"Don't worry, milady," she sighed, her large hand stroking a tender warm feeling into Kristina. "Your time will come, just as mine did when I had my children last year."

"But Siegfried can't wait for that time to come. I know that if I don't deliver an heir soon enough that he'll divorce me. He'll discard me for another woman who can have a mewling brood of children and satisfy every need that he has…"

She crumpled, her head falling in between her knees. Tears began to roll down her cheeks in the mere contemplation of what could happen. Freda's hand found its way onto her back, bringing reassurance and comfort with it.

"There, there," she whispered soothingly. "His highness still loves you, even if you suspect the worst. The gossipmongers are just out to get you, to destabilise – because they want to be where you are right now. The wife of a king of a substantial piece of land. Plenty of money, all the latest fashions – what woman would not want that?"

"A sensible woman," Kristina snapped, turning over on one side and lying with her back to her nursemaid. "Sometimes this position – it takes its toll. You are expected to do – so much. Like giving the king an heir. And since I can't do that…"

She sat up on the bed and faced Freda. Anybody who saw the poor woman's situation at the present time could not help but feel so very sorry for her, seeing those eyes shining with tears.

"The blessing I thought it was just turns out to be a curse," Kristina spat.

Freda thought for a moment, long and hard. Tension in concentration creased her face, wondering whether her suggestion would be entirely – safe. She decided for it, and moved in closer on her mistress and childhood friend.

"Listen," she whispered. "I've heard that in the town of Grindelwald – just beyond the forest – is a doctor. They say that he is a miracle worker – he can make women pregnant with some of his remedies without charging even the smallest of fees."

"What is this miracle worker's name?"

"Doctor Friedrich Maleficus, as I recall, milady," Freda answered promptly. "And he owns a small house in Grindelwald – the end of a row of the oldest houses in town. But—"

She paused for a minute, and Kristina's frown and accompanying glare intensified simultaneously.

"But what, Freda?"

"They say that Maleficus dabbles in the black arts, in sorcery. I wouldn't be surprised if it were true to tell the truth. With such a shady character and so many shady dealings, it's difficult to know what to expect…"

"If he can help me give birth, I'm all for the man," the queen interrupted. "Nothing is more precious to me right now than a child. Nothing, do you hear?"

"As you say, milady," Freda sighed, curtsying and backing out of the room courteously.

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The carriage juddered through the forest at an alarming rate, creeping roots of trees and omnipresent weeds being crushed under the shuddering wheel.

Queen Kristina could not find it in herself to admire the forest around her. The dark trees bent in maligned and disturbed forms, surrounding her. Darkness always seemed to encapsulate the woods, even at the peak of midday. So much seemed to lurk in there that could not be trusted.

A clearing to the right for example. It was entirely devoid of any life, just the stillness of death, except for an enormous gnarled, twisted-out-of-all-shape tree rooted into the centre.

Kristina shivered. As a child, she had grown up with folklore surrounding this tree. They called it the Tree of Death, the domain of the sinister Masked Rider who rode the world at night on his skeletal horse, killing those who dared to stay up late.

But that had been a simple fabrication, made up by nursemaids to scare children into going to bed earlier, for fear of being gutted by a terrifying spectral horseman. But she had also heard wise men say that every legend, myth and fairy tale had a basis in fact.

And what if this legend had basis in fact too?

She decided not to dwell on the horrific legends surrounding that tree. After all, it was just another tree in the middle of another forest. It should not have been anything special.

After a while, the carriage emerged from the darkness of the forest and burst into the daylight engulfing the countryside. In the grassy valley lay a small town, characterised by smoking chimneys and ramshackle cottages. It would be a nightmare to find the oldest row of houses in the town, for they all looked ancient beyond belief.

The carriage entered, passing under the threshold of the gatehouse. Kristina drew her hood up, since now people were raising their heads at the glamorous white stallions and carriage that had just wandered into their midst.

Deciding that trying to find the right house independently would take too long, Kristina called to the driver to stop the carriage, and bent out of the window.

"You there!" she called to the nearest peasant, who was trudging dejectedly along the road with no apparent self-esteem or morale whatsoever. "What's your name?"

"My name?" the young man turned around and frowned. Seeing the dignity and class of the lady he was addressing, he took off his cap at once, revealing a rather thin head of hair for one so young. "Klaas Klein, milady."

"Herr Klein," Kristina asked rather pointedly, "do you know where I might find Dr Friedrich Maleficus?"

Herr Klein gave a small start at the name, like a timid mouse, and knobbly knees began to knock together. When he stopped gnawing his cap in terror, his voice had melted into stammers.

"Doc-Doctor Mal-Maleficus…is the c-c-cottage a-at the en-end of tha-that row. Op-opposite the ch-church, mi-milady."

"Why do you stutter so, good man?" Kristina frowned.

"He-he – they s-say he's a m-m-magician, who d-d-dabbles in the bl-black arts," Klaas stuttered, his words going frightfully askew.

"As I've heard several times now," Kristina muttered under her breath. "Thank you for the directions, Herr Klein," she added cordially. "Driver – move on!"

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They stopped outside a tall, wizened building that had decayed with age. Its windows had been smashed and had not been replaced by the proprietor. The vegetation had overgrown in the garden at the front, vines and grasses climbing up the façade of the house. A layer of mildew and fog seemed to settle only on this house.

Despite this extreme sense of foreboding, Kristina pushed through the gate (that looked ready to collapse at the slightest of touches) and entered the house, shuddering violently as she came into it. It seemed to be even colder in the house than outside in the freezing December air.

"What do you want?" a voice snapped.

Kristina almost shrieked, and her head jerked upwards to a tall man standing at the top of a flight of rickety stairs. Dark hair sprouted from halfway down his head, into ringlets now flecked with grey. Shadows lay upon his face in every possible spot, and sunken eyes regarded her, their colour indistinguishable.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

"I come to seek Dr Friedrich Maleficus with a request," Kristina said imperiously, swallowing her shriek.

"A request?" the sinister man purred, advancing down the stairs insidiously. "Why, you have to the right man, milady." He bowed, sweeping his cloak back with one arm. "I am Dr Friedrich Maleficus, and I am here simply to serve your every request, ma'am." His dark eyes darted to the back room, which was obscured behind a ragged grey curtain. "Come. The back room is the best place."

He led Kristina by the hand along the hallway and, the veil flourishing as he brushed through it, into the back room.

She gasped, never having seen a room so stuffed full of paranormal and occult artefacts. A pile of skulls had been stacked up in one corner, shrunken heads hung from the ceiling, and a mountain of a library stood against the wall.

But the central feature of the room was a large surface on the floor, barely covered by a large, threadbare cloak. Kristina felt drawn to it, and Dr Maleficus' fixed gaze was held directly by the strange covered item.

And for some reason, Kristina could hear breathing: heavy, slow breathing. As if the room had a heartbeat, or some kind of pulse, it breathed as if this were its first few respirations in life, like a newborn child. A newborn child with a very disturbing kind of twist to it.

"What do you desire?" Dr Maleficus called out to her, facing away from her still.

"I want to have a child," Kristina explained. "Her lips should be the colour of blood and the rose. Her hair should be as black as the finest polished ebony, and her skin should be as white as the snow that falls outside at this very moment."

"_A strange request_," rasped a voice. She gasped. That had not been Dr Maleficus. It was a strange and unearthly voice, non-corporeal and seemingly omnipresent. "_And a difficult one at that. This may require extra payment_."

"Please!" Kristina pleaded. "Anything. I need this child! I really do!"

"_Doctor, let me talk to this patient myself_," the voice hissed. "_Your voice is regal. You are a queen, are you not? Expected to give birth to as many heirs as possible, by your husband, the king? It must be a terrible burden to carry when you have not produced one single child, mustn't it_?"

Kristina nodded, biting back any tears that might spring forth. Every word that this disembodied voice uttered seemed to petrify her to insanity and back. Every rasp intruded every thought process.

"_A very difficult task indeed. And it shall certainly require blood. And to be precise about it, milady, it shall require your blood_."

She pulled her sleeve up forcefully, exposing her bare arm, blanched with the extreme cold of December.

"Then take it! Anything for a child!"

"_Dr Maleficus, if you will_."

Dr Maleficus advanced, a large silver knife gripped tightly in his hand. Grabbing his customer's arm uncouthly, he prepared to slit it open.

"_Let the blood drip directly onto my prison, doctor. Let me taste it_."

"As you wish, milord," Dr Maleficus said, dragging Kristina's arm over to the covered surface. He whipped the cloak off with one of his feet, to expose whatever lay beneath.

Beneath was a luminescent mirror, almost liquid in its reflection. It measured to the average height of a man and its breadth about half of that measurement. Kristina felt a strange attraction to the mirror, a force drawing her towards it.

She pinched herself to numb the pain as Dr Maleficus drew his silver knife down the length of her forearm, and let the ensuing scarlet blood drip in a sickly pattern onto the immaculate surface of the mirror.

The non-corporeal voice seemed to inhale, and as it did so, the blood soaked into the mirror, disappearing entirely.


End file.
